And the Sea Is Never Full: Memoirs 1969

by Elie Wiesel

  You are right, of course. But—and it is an important but—I am appalled by the thought that one day the Holocaust will be measured and judged in part by the NBC TV production bearing its name. Listen to what one of the study-guides, prepared by the National Council of Churches, has been telling its readers: “‘Holocaust’ may come to be known as the definitive film on the Holocaust in terms of meticulous accuracy, totality of material presented, and its use of carefully selected archival footage….” Though surely well-intentioned, such misleading, complacent statements are dangerous: It simply is not so. The witness feels here duty-bound to declare: what you have seen on the screen is not what happened there. You may think you know now how the victims lived and died, but you do not. Auschwitz cannot be explained nor can it be visualized. Whether culmination or aberration of history, the Holocaust transcends history. Everything about it inspires fear and leads to despair. The dead are in possession of a secret that we, the living, are neither worthy of nor capable of recovering.

  Art and Theresienstadt were perhaps compatible in Theresienstadt, but not here—not in a television studio. The same is true of prayer and Buchenwald, faith and Treblinka. A film about Sobibor is either not a picture or not about Sobibor.

  The Holocaust? The ultimate event, the ultimate mystery, never to be comprehended or transmitted. Only those who were there know what it was, the others will never know. It was easier for Auschwitz inmates to imagine themselves free than for free persons to imagine themselves in Auschwitz.

  What then is the answer? How is one to tell a tale that cannot be—but must be—told? How is one to protect the memory of the victims? How are we to oppose the killers’ hopes and their accomplices’ endeavors to kill the dead for the second time? What will happen when the last survivor is gone? I don’t know. All I know is that the witness does not recognize himself in this film.

  The Holocaust must be remembered. But not as a show.

  In the course of the fury unleashed by the show, I discovered that the producers had consulted with well-remunerated “expert advisors”: two SS officers. Not one survivor.

  What to do? I am partial to documentaries. The Eighty-first Blow, Night and Fog, The Partisans of Vilna, and, of course, Shoah, which I helped with a long and favorable review in the Times. I wished to acknowledge the enormous effort and devotion of Claude Lanzmann. His film remains a monumental achievement. Nonetheless, certain passages were controversial. For example, the way he dwells on the Todeskampf, the death struggle, in the gas chambers. Am I too steeped in Jewish tradition, which considers death a private event whose secret is to be respected? That is why Moses died alone, far from people’s sight. And then I cannot, I don’t want to, accept Lanzmann’s images of Jewish mothers climbing over their children to breathe another second. Of course this is not meant as an overall criticism of Lanzmann—far from it; I understand that he wanted to show the degradation conceived and programmed by the Germans. The Sonderkommando is a German invention, not a Jewish one. All its members were forced to do their brutal tasks. They, too, were victims of the killers. And no one has the right to judge them. In my preface to Voices in the Night, I tried to express all the tenderness I have for them. True, some members of the Sonderkommandos refused to comply; Greek deportees chose to be shot rather than feed the ovens. I was told that the Chief Rabbi of my town, Rabbi Yekutiel-Yehuda Teitelbaum, threw himself into the flames for the same reason. But his gesture does not diminish the others’ worth. And it is partly in memory of their martyrdom that I wrote of Lanzmann’s film with unmitigated praise.

  Other performances on screen or stage, have dealt with this subject. And every time I felt that the memory of the Holocaust was tainted by either the images or the language, I raised my voice. I don’t regret it. Since nobody else protested, it was my duty to do so. And whenever I hesitated, there was always someone to remind me of my own words: Silence signifies consent. Just as there was always someone to resent me. And some grudges are tenacious. Because I disliked Sophie’s Choice (the film, not the book), and said so in print, William Styron and I no longer speak. I also voiced my disappointment with Ghetto, a play about the Vilna Ghetto, which provoked an acrimonious response from its author, the Israeli playwright Joshua Sobol. Yet when I decried certain segments of the television series The Winds of War, the author of the novel on which it was based, Herman Wouk, understood my reaction. It is always the same problem: Auschwitz cannot be depicted; the veil covering this dark universe cannot be lifted.

  I know that some of the writers who have introduced the Holocaust into their work take exception to my “purist” attitude on the subject. They consider me, unjustly, a kind of censor-inquisitor who watches scrupulously over a territory that, they believe, is theirs as much as the survivors’. They suppose, wrongly, that I claim exclusive rights for myself and my fellow survivors. That is not the case. In literature as in philosophy, there is no “game preserve.” Anybody can write on any subject, and even on any individual. But I maintain that no one, myself included, is authorized to speak on behalf of the dead; no one may appropriate their memory. Those who accuse me of arrogance because I demand the respect due the dead understand nothing of my motives: I plead for humility, for more prudence, more reserve in both behavior and language.

  Unfortunately, there are suddenly too many Holocaust scholars who know the answers to all our questions, too many experts who, from one day to the next, become judges and critics, deciding who deserves to write and who doesn’t, who is sentimental and who isn’t, who should be read and who shouldn’t. We have come to the point where Jewish survivors no longer dare to speak up. The others always know better.

  • • •

  In France, one of the most vociferous adversaries of the survivors is Jean-Marie Domenach. Wasn’t it he who in September 1989, in connection with the controversy surrounding the Carmelite convent in Auschwitz, led the slander campaign against “certain Jews” he accuses of “Judeocentrism,” in other words, of being too Jewish? Surely he was a participant. It is difficult for a Jew to speak of Auschwitz without leaving himself open to criticism, as it is difficult to speak of Israel or Judaism without provoking outbursts of hate.

  As regards myself, the attacks and insults come from many sources. I upset a lot of people. I am disliked by racists and anti-Semites of the reactionary right as much as by certain young intellectuals who need to prove their independence of the establishment.

  Another intellectual who has chosen to attack me is Alfred Grosser, a Germanist. He denounces me in one book and in many statements to the press for not having devoted my Nobel acceptance speech to the Kurds gassed by the Iraqis. Evidently he does not fear ridicule; one or another of his friends or ideological cohorts should have reminded him that I was awarded the Nobel in 1986, while the monstrous crime against the Kurds was committed two years later, in 1988.

  As for Jean-Marie Domenach, his statements are ugly in both substance and form. What annoys him most in today’s France? That “the dividends of Auschwitz” are “collected” by certain Jews for political, literary, and other reasons. I don’t know which of Domenach’s writings will survive, but this “original” phrase will remain. One will say “Domenach” and will inevitably add: “Oh yes, ‘the dividends of Auschwitz.’”

  A warning to historians and theologians, philosophers and psychologists, novelists and poets: A Domenach is waiting around the corner. If they write about Auschwitz, he will accuse them of doing so to enhance their careers. The witnesses, the chroniclers, the survivors? They forfeit their right to evoke their suffering, to look backwards: Domenach will chastise them for “profiteering.” Of course, he will say he did not mean them but “certain” others. In a handwritten, not very coherent letter addressed to me, he said that his remarks were meant for Bernard-Henri Lévy and Zeev Sternhell, not for me.

  If one follows the trajectory of Domenach to its grotesque conclusion, a former member of the Resistance should never again speak of the Resistance, nor shoul
d a rabbi speak of the Talmud, or a priest of the Evangelists; each could be accused of collecting “dividends.”

  Domenach’s ignorance actually surprises me less than his impudence. By what authority does he give advice and lessons to the Jews? Who is he to lecture us? What right has he to tell us what is appropriate? What does Domenach know about Auschwitz? Has he no shame? What exactly does he want, that Jews like myself remain silent?

  Let us go back to those who accuse me of Judeocentrism; namely, that I am exclusively interested in Jews; that I fight only for their rights; concern myself only with their affairs, their happiness, their survival. What if that were so? Having seen and experienced the isolation of Jews in danger, would it not be natural for me to attempt to oppose it whenever it reappears? Isn’t it normal for a Jew, a survivor, to devote himself to his people first?

  In my Oslo speech I outlined my position: Jewish destiny is my priority, but that priority is not exclusive. Indeed, I can say in good faith that I have not remained indifferent to any cause involving the defense of human rights. But, you may ask, what have I done to alleviate the plight of the Palestinians? And here I must confess: I have not done enough.

  Is an explanation in order? In spite of considerable pressure, I have refused to take a public stand in the Israeli-Arab conflict. I have said it before: since I do not live in Israel, it would be irresponsible for me to do so. But I have never concealed how much the human dimension of the Palestinian tragedy affects me. I speak of it in A Beggar in Jerusalem. I refer to the Arab children’s eyes, so sad, so frightened. They troubled me and saddened me. This I stated not only in the novel but also on Israeli television.

  After a lecture I give at a midwestern university, a student confronts me: “You who do so much for so many oppressed people, what are you doing for the Palestinians?” Elsewhere another student asks me the same question, but more directly: “I am Palestinian; what do you have to say to me?” In both cases, a productive dialogue ensues.

  A Palestinian whose open letter, published in Le Monde, remained unanswered was Mahmoud Darwich. His poem, addressed to the Israelis, incites hate: “Take your graves and go!” Even the Intifada cannot excuse such language. But years earlier, another Palestinian poet affected me deeply.

  I remember: The telephone rings. There is a man’s voice, speaking Hebrew: “My name is Rashid Hussein. I’d like to meet you. It is urgent.” I wait. Surely he guesses the reason for my silence, for he adds: “Don’t be concerned, I am not PLO, I am Israeli. An Israeli poet. An Israeli poet writing in Arabic.” I invite him to come the next day. “Couldn’t you see me today? It really is urgent.” Fine, let him come.

  Right away he makes a good impression. Serious, sensitive, full of passion, he comes straight to the point, describing the intolerable situation of Arabs in Israel and particularly in the West Bank. From time to time I interrupt him to confess my skepticism. He must be inventing, embroidering, exaggerating. He elaborates, speaking of censorship, restrictions, arbitrary arrests. My response? Impossible, inconceivable; he exaggerates, he invents. “Either you are ill-informed or utterly naive,” Rashid mutters. He proceeds to read me a long list of names of Arabs in preventive detention, imprisoned without trial. Impulsively I grab the phone, waking up a well-known journalist in Tel Aviv. “I have in my office a Palestinian poet who is telling me outrageous things. Is he lying? Is he being manipulated?”

  The journalist confirms everything Rashid has told me. I must look agitated because he feels compelled to apologize: “I am sorry to be bothering you like this.” What does he want me to do? Sign a petition on behalf of his friends in “administrative” detention? Other writers and intellectuals have already done so. I tell him: “I never sign anything against Israel.” He replies: “I thought so. When it comes to us, you remain silent,” and he stands. I ask him to sit down again: “I have a proposition: Stop circulating your petition and I shall go to Israel. I shall do my best to help your friends.” He accepts.

  A few days later I am knocking on Golda Meir’s door. I tell her why I have come. A motherly smile lights up her face: “Stay out of this,” she says. “This is not for you. These things are so complex, you wouldn’t begin to understand. Leave it to the experts.” It’s not easy to contradict a prime minister, but I must. “Golda,” I say. “You cannot do this to us, all of us in the Diaspora who try to defend human rights. You should not force us to choose between our conscience and our loyalty to Israel.” She would rather not discuss this further, but we do. In the end, she says: “In the West Bank such matters are settled by the military authorities; why don’t you go see them?”

  And so I meet the commander in chief of the army. He, too, would rather not discuss the topic, but we do anyway. His response: “No arrest is arbitrary; it must be authorized by a commission that always includes a civil judge.” I run to the president of the Supreme Court. With him there is no need for discussion: The law is the law. His role is to safeguard every citizen, every individual, from abuses of power. But then what about the preventive arrests? How are they to be explained? The judge reassures me: This only happens when the security services detain a suspect whose guilt is established but the evidence would be dangerous to display before a tribunal, thus before the lawyers for the defense. Why dangerous? Because the evidence is provided by informers, covert agents. What is the solution, to allow the saboteurs to go free and risk the lives and security of peaceful Israelis? I understand but I am troubled.

  I see Golda again. I bother so many people, and I annoy them so many times, that finally, to get rid of me, a few prisoners are freed. I fly back to New York, triumphant. I call Rashid Hussein to give him the good news. He already knows. I ask to see him right away, to celebrate the success of our common efforts. He makes excuses: He has no time, some other time. Never mind, it will wait. When we finally meet for coffee, the young Palestinian seems embarrassed. What is the matter? Why isn’t he happier? He looks away as he confesses that while I was in Jerusalem, he continued to circulate his petition. “I had no choice,” he says. “Thinking of my friends in prison, I couldn’t wait. Patience is for happy people, not for us, not yet.”

  Soon after this episode, Marion and I go to hear him read at the Village Vanguard. He recites poems charged with violence and bitterness. Poor uprooted Rashid: He sinks deeper and deeper into despair. He drinks a lot, I am told. To each his refuge. His is in the bottle. I don’t judge him. Rather it is he who, swallowing glass after glass, seems to be judging … whom?

  When he dies alone and forsaken in his room downtown, I wonder whether his friends are still—or again—in Israeli prisons, and whether the poets among them sing with any less anger or despair.

  Let us turn the page. What about my Jewish opponents?

  After the Ani Maamin performance at Carnegie Hall, friends gather backstage to congratulate the artists and musicians. Among them is a broad-shouldered man with a mustache and darting eyes in a massive face. He introduces himself: Simon Wiesenthal. I shake his hand warmly. We embrace. I know him by name and admire his work. After all, he was in the death camps. He was also the first Nazi hunter of the postwar period. I hold him in great esteem. I know that he resides in Vienna and ask him to visit us next time he is in New York.

  A few years go by. Then one day he calls. We speak of this and that: Israel, anti-Semitism, the SS executioners hidden in South America. He talks about his books, but I prefer to listen to his exploits hunting down war criminals on the run. I mention the name Adolf Eichmann. I know how much we owe Wiesenthal in this affair. And so I tell him of my indignation about an article published in an Israeli newspaper in which a former member of the Mossad accuses him of lying when he claims to have played a key role in the kidnapping of this Nazi criminal. Wiesenthal replies that the Israeli secret services hate him, that they are jealous of his successes.

  And Josef Mengele, the doctor-assassin responsible for the “selections” at Birkenau, does anyone know his hiding place? In his conversations wit
h me, Wiesenthal claims to know and gives me precise details: his false identities, the names of his accomplices and protectors. But then why don’t they arrest him? My guest places the responsibility on others. He again complains about the Mossad and the Israeli secret services in general, who, he says, do all they can to smear him. Later I read in an as-yet-unpublished manuscript by Issar Harel, the legendary former chief of the Mossad, a very unflattering portrait of Wiesenthal. He criticizes his boasting, his preoccupation with public relations; he even accuses him of having jeopardized an Israeli operation intended to capture Mengele.

  Before leaving, Wiesenthal asks me for a favor: to review his latest book—which I haven’t yet read—in the Times. It is the story of a dying SS officer who, inside a concentration camp, begs him, Wiesenthal, to forgive him. It sounds preposterous to me, but how do I know? I haven’t read it yet. As for the favor he is requesting, I explain to him that things do not work this way in the United States. Book review editors are extremely touchy about anything that smacks of cronyism. But I promise to do my best.

  He visits my home on two more occasions. Both times he comes directly from seeing Kurt Waldheim, then secretary-general of the U.N., and his close friend. “Can you imagine?” he tells me, beaming: “He insisted on escorting me all the way to the elevator.” At that time the dark past of the future president of Austria was not yet known.